Tyger Tyger
by Grey L. Bloom
Summary: Lord Vetinari muses on Kings and such. Fun fun.


Author's Note: Well now. This was written on a whim, upon the discovery that I had William Blake's "The Tyger" on my computer. It's really just a fifteen-minute doodad that I worked up. I had fun with it, though. All characters belong to Terry Pratchett, "The Tyger" to the late Mr. Blake, and myself and this fic to me. Voila.  
  
  
-Tyger Tyger-  
  
  
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright   
In the forests of the night,  
What immortal hand or eye  
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?  
  
  
  
Lord Vetinari walked down the drafty corridor, his long black coat sweeping behind him. The Guilds had been quiet lately, dealing with their complaints silently and effectively.  
  
It unnerved him.  
  
He had begun to wonder if there was a plot of some kind, like there always was. A king to replace the tyrant, a king, a king. Always a king. They never said "Despot", or "Blood-thirsty Fool", or "Inbred Maniac". No. It was always whispering in the back of his mind.   
  
"A king, a king..."  
  
  
  
In what distant deeps or skies  
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?  
On what wings dare he aspire?  
What the hand dare seize the fire?  
  
  
  
He danced a miniscule jig on indistinguishable stones, his mind somewhere else, his feet hitting a different stone each time in careful, practiced rhythm.   
  
It had been growing lately. The hum was getting louder. His spies were getting cautious, trying to be clever (poor dim-witted fools) and giving him nonsense like what Mrs. Cake had worn the day before.   
  
A lovely pink taffeta, actually, with a nicely matching parasol and laced handbag. It looked much better on her than the yellow silk with the, you know, the little flowers and things.  
  
He touched the wall lightly, and there was the sound of gears.  
  
  
  
And what shoulder, and what art,  
Could twist the sinews of thy heart,  
And when thy heart began to beat,  
What dread hand? and what dread feet?  
  
  
  
He probably shouldn't worry; it would calm down in a week, two weeks at the most. Commander Vimes would clonk a few heads, curse a few Guild leaders, mess up the whole thing terribly, and then probably get a promotion. Then it would be over.  
  
Until the next time, when some insane Royal-Fanatic, like that poor d'Eath boy, got the idea into his head that Ankh-Morpork needed a king.  
  
It was like someone had said once. Somewhere in mankind's subconcious, some invisible hand had written the words "Kings. What a good idea." And mankind had run with the idea.  
  
Fools.  
  
Lord Vetinari stepped carefully over what was apparently six inches of empty air.  
  
  
  
What the hammer? what the chain?  
In what furnace was thy brain?  
What the anvil? what dread grasp  
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?  
  
  
  
Vetinari had reached the end of the corridor. He drew a silver key from somewhere in his clothing fitted it into a virtually invisible keyhole, turned it a fraction of an inch, and pushed a little to the left of a barely visible line in the wall.  
  
It opened.  
  
The room was large and brightly lit, sun beams from the high windows showing the dust and woodshavings that floated in the air. There was a small cot in the corner, with a table and wash basin. And the rest of the room...  
  
Something with wheels whirred in the middle of the room, while the squeaking of gears came from behind a large heap of scrap metal. There were piles of used paper, every inch scribbled over carefully, no space wasted. He picked a paper up. There was a sketch of the human brain, with tabs noting the different lobes and hemispheres, attention centers and sight centers and taste centers.   
  
Vetinari wondered idly if there was a king center.  
  
There was a cry of: "LOOK OUT!" and something whirred past his ear.  
  
  
  
When the stars threw down their spears,  
And water'd heaven with their tears,  
Did he smile his work to see?  
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?  
  
  
  
A small bald man huffed across the room to him, looking worried. "My goodness, that just went off like anything, didn't it?" he said, inspecting the round razor blade that was buried in the wall next to Vetinari's head. "I think I know what went wrong this time, though."  
  
The man was ancient in a way that seemed that he had started looking ancient at the age of five and hadn't stopped since. His hair was long and white and was rivaled only by his beard, which tumbled down his white toga in a mass of tangled hair.  
  
Lord Vetinari set the paper down carefully. "So this is what you're working on now, is it, Leonard?"  
  
The small man beamed. "Yes, yes, but it's not really supposed to do that. It's actually an idea I had the other day for music on discs."  
  
"On discs?"  
  
"Yes! See, they're DISCS with COMPACTED information on them, so I called them-"  
  
"Music-Holding-Discs?"  
  
"Yes! How did you guess?"  
  
Vetinari shrugged his shoulders slightly. "Just a hunch, I suppose."  
  
  
  
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright  
In the forests of the night,  
What immortal hand or eye,  
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?   
_______________________________________ 


End file.
